Tongue Tied
by SamuelSpaz
Summary: Harried phone calls from victims speaking complete nonsense only moments before they die? The Fringe division is called in, discovering evidence that could link it back to ZFT. Intended to be like another episode of Fringe; please R&R!
1. Is Somnium Nos Sono

So, here is my first Fringe fanfiction and my second fanfiction ever. I was kinda hoping that since the season ended on Tuesday (AHHHHHH), that this would, besides satifising my current bloodthirsty obsession with the show, kinda just be like a episode of the show. I don't have an exact time of when it happed, but definitely sometime after Dreamscape and most definitely when they know about ZFT. I hope to figure this out a bit more a I write. A couple more notes; One, I have not seen the first 5 episodes or so (sacrilege, I know!), so if I contradict something said or done in those, please graciously let me know. Also, while this isn't really a shippy fanfiction, I do definitely like Bolivia, so that might pop up quite a bit. Another obsession with Latin has also me incorporate a lot of Latin into this story. I also think I am obliged to state here that I do not own any part of Fringe--characters, situations, etc--and this is just for fun and not for profit. And that is just about it...please enjoy and as, most other people, I do appreciate all types of reviews, positive or negetive!

--

Is Somnium Nos Sono

-

This nonsense we utter

--

For Blake Green, the day was like any other. But then again, the most normal days seemed to be the ones that held the most disturbing secrets.

Sunlight streamed through the open window of his Upper East Side apartment, casting a warm glow on the mess of papers scattered across his desk. Spring hadn't quite graced Manhattan with its presence, but day by day the breezes got slightly warmer and the days slightly sunnier.

Finishing a sentence with a messy scribble of his pen, the man paused, pushed back his chair and stood up. He swaggered over to the small kitchenette, glancing at the shifty world outside. He could barely make out the tops of some trees in Central Park if he craned his neck right. The sight slightly frustrated him. He knew that with his salary he could likely afford to own property right on the park. But lay low, he had been told. And that certainly didn't mean living on 5th Avenue.

Blake was washing out his coffee mug, the barely touched contents long cold, when his cell phone rang. It didn't surprise him; almost no one had his home number.

"Hello?" he answered.

"B-bucks-b…for the bus b-bench!" wailed a shaky voice on the other end.

"Pardon?"

"B-b-black bear…blue bug-b-b-blood."

Blake froze. He knew that voice.

"Allan?" he intervened.

"P-Peter-Peter piper…"

"Allan," Blake commanded, "What are you talking about?"

"New York-You know New York, you k-know-"

Allan's voice was even more frantic now, climbing in intensity and speed with every new nonsensical quip he uttered. Blake began to panic, but remembered something.

He rushed out of his kitchen and back to his desk, to the nearly mutilated piece of paper he had been working on all morning. As he attempted to interpret the illegible scrawl, he directed the man over the phone.

"Now, listen closely," he said nervously, "and repeat exactly as I say."

Silence. Blake continued.

"Bell—Bellum omnium contre—tra om—omnes," he dictated with a mild amount of pronunciation difficulty, "Can you just say that for me, Allan?"

Allan didn't respond.

"Allan?"

Still nothing. The hand holding the phone began to shake. As he considered the worst, Blake heard the voices of children from the school down the street. His mind warped their squeals of joy to much more sinister screams, painful cries of helpless agony. The noises pounded relentlessly in his head, all with the same undeniable message.

"Allan?" he questioned one last futile time, his voice breaking.

There was nothing on the other line except static, the incessant buzzing holding no trace of the familiar voice. Gulping down his emotions, Blake hung up. Slowly, he began to dial another number.

--

After a devoted scouring and re-scouring of the ostentatious wooden desk, Astrid had finally found the requested writing utensil. She turned the pen over in her hand, her expression reflecting that of mild humor. It was just as Walter had described it to be; an enameled black fountain pen with two shiny gold rings around the grip, devoid of its leather case. Only Walter had been incorrect on one account. Astrid had found it coupled still with the dark brown box, hidden beneath, not that it surprised her, a fake bottom in the right hand drawer.

"Walter?" she hollered, "Think I found it."

"Ah! Good!" he exclaimed, sliding off the lab stool he had been perched on and climbing the stairs with enthusiasm.

The smile on his face held joy and elation akin to that of a small child at Christmas. The sight of it almost made Astrid consider the last hour well-spent. Almost.

"This," he said, accepting the find, "is the perfect pen."

She looked at him skeptically.

"No, really! Absolute perfection."

"And…" she considered, "…how?"

"You see," he explained, holding it up between them, "It is weighted to rest perfectly in the writer's hand, allowing them no discomfort. You could write for hours with this thing! And the ink—the ink is permanent, composed as to dry instantly upon the surface—and this is whatever surface you like, as it will write on anything. No more messy, irritable smearing as so oft happens with those cheap ballpoints nowadays. I remember exactly where and when I got this—"

The frosted figure that had appeared in the glass of the door opened it with a creak. As slyly as it may opened it, the ominous being slammed the door hard, interrupting Walter's anecdote.

"Is anyone here?" rang out Peter's voice.

"Yes," Walter responded, "and how many times have I told you to be gentle with that door! I am very partial to it and it's a miracle it has even survived this long!"

"We're over here," Astrid clarified for Peter, "Welcome back."

Peter jogged over to them, setting down a paper bag filled with nothing more than goldfish and a block of cheese. The cheese, of course, was to eat; the goldfish, to use Walter's words, were a vital aspect of the experiment he was conducting. What exactly for, it was best to leave unanswered; his cohorts had learned not to ask until it was absolutely necessary they knew.

But their curious human nature still urged them to at least ask something and Peter suspiciously lifted his eyebrows at the object his father now held with the utmost care.

"Is that a pen?" he questioned.

"Your father seems very partial to quite a few things," Astrid said distinctly to Peter, leaning as if it were some big secret.

"He does appear to have separation anxiety when it comes to possessions," Peter joked back, "Luckily, it doesn't kick in until he realizes he's misplaced it…"

Astrid nodded in exaggerated comprehension.

"Normally, I would accept your inconsiderate jokes without comment, but today I feel the urge to remind you that I am still in the room."

"Nothing against you personally, pops," Peter said playfully as he patted Walter on the back.

With his face turned away, Walter smiled subtly at his son's antics.

"Either way," Peter continued, "Olivia called. She said to pack an overnight bag."

"Hmmm?" Astrid questioned.

"We're taking a weekend in New York."

--

Phillip Broyles probably trusted Agent Olivia Dunham more than he trusted himself. Her logic didn't always seem immediately comprehendible, but the advantage of having a right-hand man—or woman—who listened to their gut had in time become an invaluable asset. More than occasionally, when she stepped over the line, he had very bluntly notified her of the reality of her often messy circumstances. Not that when she was determined it ever seemed to affect her in the slightest. He liked that about her. While he couldn't claim that he waited around all day to see what new, fresh conspiracy she would bring into his office, he had to admit that despite the harsh and often disturbing aspects of his job, he looked forward to the moment when she would confidently rush in and disclose to him the most grandiose, unbelievable scheme that her intelligent, crazed gang had cooked up. Some of them were really quite laughable, but in his line of work, laughable could very easily mean accurate. And usually it did.

Fortunately for Broyles, he wouldn't have to wait very long for his favorite moment of the day; he had barely removed his coat and logged onto his computer when Olivia poked her head around the door.

"Broyles?"

He glanced up.

"Yes, Agent Dunham."

"I have a favor to ask of you."

Broyles studied her carefully and then got to his feet, his hands flat against the desk, leaning forward. His dark, insightful features took her in.

"It's in New York, sir," Olivia continued, "It isn't our division, but I think it may somehow be related to ZFT."

"Any proof?"

"Only a witness"

"That it's connected to ZFT?"

Olivia's eyes darted to the side as she considered how to phrase the next details. This was the part where she would normally learn whether Broyles would let her pursue it or not.

"We're not that far yet. This witness only gives a clue as to the…peculiar…circumstances."

"Well, peculiar is what we do. What is it?"

It was as good as a thumbs up to Dunham. She crossed over from the threshold of the door to pull up a chair to Broyles' desk. Then she began to explain.

--

The Bishops and company met Olivia at Platform B2 of Boston's South Station. After what the group had seen on the job, it seemed to have become a sort of unspoken oath among them to avoid air travel, if possible. It was just an insignificant preference that enabled them to become well-acquainted with all means of ground transportation, trains included. Across the platform, Peter approached Olivia first, his dorky grin spread across his face.

"So, little Miss Ambiguity, what pressing site is there for us to see in the Big Apple?"

Olivia almost laughed at his teddy-bearish demeanor, but instead let a quiet smirk work its way across her face.

"You'll just have to see, Mister Curious," she teased back.

"Hmmm," Peter said, mocking fake appraisal of her words, "You could be wittier."

She turned to the other two, laughing and cursing at Peter's lightheartedness. As much as she cared for them, Olivia sometimes wondered how she had gotten stuck with the peanut gallery.

Refocusing, she took a look at the ticket and gestured to the track on the left.

--

Olivia gazed out the train window, partially watching the blur outside, partially studying her own reflection in the plane of glass. The rushing trees and buildings made her uneasy, but captivated her all the same.

She felt like the person in the glass, empty and hollow, allowing all these flighty shadows to fill her up and then leave almost as quickly as the moving landscape. Her only consolation was that this forward motion might actually be taking her somewhere, somewhere she could find if not adequate, than at least partial answers.

She hoped that this thriving metropolis, with its own secrets to tell and hide, could put to rest at least some of the questions that haunted her mind. But she also just as well considered the fact that it could do nothing more but plunge her even further into the mysteries of life.


	2. Per Curiosus Speculatio

Chapter 2 is here...I hope that I bit more actually happens in this chapter, but I apologize that the momentum on this story is really slow so far; I do have more pivotal events planned to happen later. Speaking of pivotal events, I couldn't really find anything on Olivia's parents, so I am just making it up. But then again, isn't that what fanfiction is? Once again, I don't own Fringe and would greatly appreciate reviews!

--

Per Curiosus Speculatio

-

Through careful observation

--

Olivia had awoken earlier than the others and, quietly slipping into her trademark black trench coat, found her way to the elegant but empty lobby of their hotel in Washington Square. As much as she enjoyed mornings, her real reason in rising with the sun was to arrive at the crime scene before the crowd. Not that she really expected to find or learn anything that couldn't be uncovered, analyzed and explained by the rest of the team, but to be alone at the site of such unexplained phenomena as she encountered on a daily basis, unclouded by deadlines, protocols and other necessary but tedious matters, brought an eerie reality to it all. Just to be in a space devoid of immediate issues allowed her to focus her mind and realize exactly how large this whole conspiracy was. And, if she did find something pivotal, a part of her wanted to face it alone.

The atmosphere that morning was beautiful, but quiet. The address, highlighted and underlined in the newspaper she tightly clutched in her hand, was that of an apartment complex in Greenwich. A brisk pace and fairly deserted streets allowed her walk to last no more than twenty minutes.

In fact, Olivia almost walked right past the inconspicuous grey building. Her eye caught the shiny silver number just in time and she back-tracked so she was at the foot of the stairs, staring up at the drab, grey-brown structure. Windows dotted the front, most dark, some with the blinds drawn, others displaying objects of the inhabitant's preference. The complex couldn't have been more than five stories tall, relatively small for the city that dwarfed it.

Finding her way up the stairs, Olivia confidently rang the buzzer. While she waited for it to be answered, she glanced at the clock on her cell-phone. 8:38. A little early for a Saturday, but still reasonable.

"Hello?"

The voice that crackled from the intercom had a fake cheer to it, undermined by a tired, early morning rasp. Olivia pressed the button and leaned in.

"Ms. Colbrat?" she questioned, "Archstone Apartments?"

"Yes," the woman's voice responded, "Who is this?"

"This is Agent Olivia Dunham with the FBI. Could I speak with you?"

--

The woman's apartment was, as was the woman herself, cozy, but outdated. The use of furniture pieces from the seventies had the potential to be chic or exotic, but anyone who met its tenant would probably assume it was something less deliberate. Ms. Colbrat (whose full name, as Olivia had learned from the file she pulled on her, was Nancy April Colbrat; age 39; Hometown, Hoboken) was tall and distant. Her already graying hair was French-braided down her back, but frantic gray wisps escaped here and there, counteracting her bright demeanor with a hectic undertone.

She ushered Olivia into the first of two cluttered rooms, hastening to pick up the random personal items strewn about. The first thing she went to was a large pile of used Kleenex, attempting to discretely brush them into a trash bin. Olivia pretended she hadn't seen it; the sight brought back painful, unwanted memories.

Ms. Colbrat sat in a faded dark green chair and Olivia seated herself on the orange corduroy couch across from her.

"I suppose," the woman spoke first, "You're here about Allan."

"Yes," Olivia nodded, "Allan Green. I was told that he lived here."

"Yes," the woman smiled hopelessly, "Yes, he did."

"What could you tell me about him?"

"Personally," she started slowly, "I will always remember him as the politest college kid I ever met. Always a helpful hand when you needed one, always a smile in morning. He made his way through life on kindness. At least it seemed so to us."

Olivia studied her closely, watching the genuine smile that lit up the woman's face as she talked about the now deceased young man.

"Was he a NYU student?"

"Oh yes. Very intelligent."

"What was he studying?"

"Advanced English literature, or something like that."

"Pardon me for asking, but were you romantically involved in anyway?"

Ms. Colbrat laughed a nervous, teary laugh and glanced to the side.

"Oh no, dear," she responded, "I saw him as more of a son. And, I can only presume, he considered me as his mother away from home."

Olivia sifted uncomfortably. She hadn't bothered to take out her notepad to write anything down, leaving her nothing to do but watch the uneasy woman in front of her.

"The local police station got a call about ten minutes after Allan's estimated time of death from his brother. He told us that Allan had called him, had said something about a bomb and that he wanted someone to go check on him. Local police showed up here ten minutes later to find no bomb and Allan dead. Do you—"

"He called Blake?" the woman interrupted, "That can't be right. You must have gotten the name wrong. He wouldn't have called Blake. They don't speak to each other."

Olivia returned Ms. Colbrat's curious stare with one of her own.

"Unless Allan knew he was dying," Olivia countered.

The woman blinked innocently.

"I—well—I suppose so."

"I was referred to you because of the statement you gave in the paper; is there anyone else you think I should talk to?"

Ms. Colbrat thought for a moment. A subtle indignant look spread across her face as she remembered someone.

"Yes," she stated in a monotone, "His girlfriend. Amanda Campbell."

"Does she live here too?"

"No, down the block. You should be able to talk to her today. As far as I've heard, she hasn't left the vicinity since she heard the news."

"I also know that you have a key to Allan's apartment. Would you mind showing me?"

And thus Olivia's real motive revealed itself.

"Sure," the woman said.

--

Unfortunately, Olivia made little progress at the crime scene. Part of her lack of discovery came from her internal fear of touching anything and messing it up for Walter and the others. This seemed irrational and she told herself that it was, but she just couldn't bring herself to go poking around in his cupboards and desk drawers yet. But mainly her lack of progress came from the fact that her mind was distracted. Something the odd, unreadable woman downstairs had told her invaded her mind and wouldn't let go. Ms. Colbrat had described herself as a mother to Allan, and indeed, her actions and care in speaking of him, the pile of saturated tissues, all of them exposed a love deep in this woman's heart for the young man.

It was, if not a difficult subject, than at least ambiguous one for Olivia to grasp. Parents were a sensitive topic with her. The one relationship she had gotten to know on a daily basis was that of Peter and Walter, but their complicated altercations didn't seem like quite the model for ideal parenting. Instead, her parents were more those in question.

Olivia's mother lived in Manhattan. For any other person, it would have been easy to stop by. But for Olivia, stopping by would require making up for years past. And for mistakes past. It had been three years since the day of their last fateful phone conversation; three years since the death of Olivia's father. And just like that their relationship had died too. Labeled in her mind as a taboo topic, no one she knew ever inquired about it. Olivia preferred to leave it that way, as much as it pained her.

These were the many thoughts that crowded her head as she walked contemplatively through the vacant apartment for about the fiftieth time. Some others from the Agency had arrived about half an hour previous and though surprised to see her, generally left her alone.

Eventually, she decided that a breath of fresh air would be good for her brain and as she rounded the corner out of the building, ran into a familiar face.

"Charlie!" Olivia exclaimed, startled.

"Good to see you're here," he stated dryly, "Peter called. He's almost here. Apparently, Dr. Bishop is quite distracted by the city."

Olivia smiled.

"Thanks for coming, Charlie."

Agent Francis sighed and looked at her.

"Are you going to enlighten me with how this case relates?"

"Inexplicable death. College student in perfect health experiences complete failure of the brain."

"Nothing gory?"

"Nothing gory, Charlie," she stated, "At least until Walter gets here."

"Speak of the devil."

Olivia glanced up to catch the two Bishops making their way down the sidewalk towards the apartment building. The older one lagged significantly behind, seeming to stop and study each sidewalk crack or piece of insignificant litter, the younger pretending he didn't know the mental case as he waited impatiently at each corner for his father to catch up.

"This could be interesting," Charlie said, Walter and Peter still out of earshot.

"And when is it not?" Olivia coolly replied back.


End file.
